The Small Part: The Second Part
by miss.quixotic
Summary: Out of Arkham and onto the streets of Gotham, Hallie Matthews helps Batman conduct a search for the most ruthless killer ever to prey on the city.
1. Chapter 1

_The worst part about writing sequels is that you have to do the introduction all over again. So here goes._

_Disclaimer first: I do not own Batman, Bruce Wayne, Alfred, Rachel Dawes, Lucius Fox... umm... who else is mentioned in here... the police officer guy there... okay, to hell with it. I don't own anybody that you see in the movie Batman Begins or in any other movie with the word "Batman" in it. If the characters in this story are not in those movies, they're mine, and I'd really like you to ask permission before using them (not that anyone would)._

_As you all know (or at least most of you; newcomers welcome, though you'll probably want to read the original fic first) this is the continuing story of Hallie Matthews. To recap: Hallie is out of Arkham Asylum and The Small Part is out of Hallie. Some of you might be upset to learn that this story will not be written in the first person. I assure you that this was necessary. Hallie cannot be everywhere at once, and there are tons of things going on that she won't be involved in._

_This should probably be said for all the romantic-fanatics out there: there will be no romance in here. Hallie may have a few flashbacks, but they won't be Hallmark worthy (no sex), and any romantic involvement that Crane starts to have with SP will probably just give you the creeps. Hell, it gave me the creeps, and I wrote it. So there. Squirming guarunteed, and no Hallie-Bruce love scenes. I hate when people start making Batman sleep with the uncannily attractive girl who shows up out of nowhere. Yuck._

_Now, as for my campaign._

_This time around, I can guarantee you longer chapters and faster updates... though not too fast; I love making you wait, because when you're stuck waiting, you review, and I love reviews. About those -- lots, please. Seriously. Five in one day if you feel like. Five in one day if you DON'T feel like. I want them. Tons._

_I think that's pretty much it. If it's not, I'll catch you in the next chapter. Thanks sooo much for reading._

**

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**

**Chapter One**

Bruce Wayne did not pause to consider the consequences of that particular interview. When he got the letter proposing he be featured on a segment about children who'd inherited vast fortunes, he just allowed himself to be signed up, however unwillingly. These were the types of things that spoiled, single millionaires did. Besides which, he convinced himself, it was only an hour. How bad could it be?

The interview itself _wasn't _bad. He sat down across from an alarmingly ancient man whose voice did not match his bodily fatigue — another Alfred, Bruce thought good-naturedly — and, for the first few minutes, was asked questions about his life, primarily about money. Bruce had never honestly considered himself to be an unintelligent man when it came to fund management. He'd made it this far without going bankrupt, so he must know something about the American dollar. He just hadn't realized until the interview how much he really did know.

So he'd answered the money questions. That didn't last long, however; it was clear enough that the interviewer (Bruce was ashamed to admit that, in spite of his immediate fondness for the man, he'd forgotten his name within the first ten minutes of sitting in his presence) wasn't particularly interested in how Bruce Wayne spent his money. No, he was more interested in how he spent his time, and what he thought about his own city.

"I've always believed that there's more to Gotham than meets the eye," he'd replied. "It was a magnificent city at one point. It's just in a low place right now. I have a feeling the sleeping giant will wake again."

Which had been a stupid answer, he realized now, because it seemed inevitable to him now, watching the broadcast, that the subject would turn to Batman.

"Batman," he'd said in what he hoped was the charming half-amused, half-exasperated voice that he had yet to master. "He's definitely one of our city's more loyal citizens. In the end, though, I think that any man who needs to wear a mask to do the community a favour cannot be considered a man at all."

Harsh. Or at least, that's what Lucius had said when he'd called Bruce after watching the interview. Alfred had said it was a very convincing performance. Well. What did either one of them expect? He was Bruce Wayne. Three different personas: Batman, Bruce Wayne, and _Bruce Wayne, _the millionaire with expensive sports cars and European girlfriends. He would never be able to stay so precariously balanced without his well-honed acting skills.

So in the end, the interview itself wasn't a problem. It was what came afterwards that worried him.

The Bruce Wayne that was constantly in the limelight was not a conventional celebrity; therefore, he'd never expected an encounter with a stalker. Why would he? He didn't act, sing, or write anything that would inspire obsession. In a point of fact, he had money and that was it. The part of him that had catalyzed closet worship was the part of him that no one knew _was _him, if that made any sense. No one besides Rachel, Alfred, and Lucius (though Lucius rarely mentioned it) knew that Bruce Wayne was Batman. Except for maybe this one other person.

It was common knowledge that Batman was currently following the trail of a killer. The death toll was rising as this human disease ravaged Gotham, brutally murdering seemingly at random... except for the fact that nearly everyone who died was obscenely rich. Still, there were a few glitches in the pattern, like the three men found dead in alleys outside of bars. Jack the Ripper-esque, but Bruce wasn't buying the idealism behind those killings. This person was something else, something infinitely more dangerous than a psychopath. From what the profilers had said about the victims, the murderer seemed to be extremely competent. There were no silly traditions, except that every dead body had some sort of chemical on their wounds that had yet to be identified.

Freaky, and a little too sci-fi for Bruce's taste. He would have let the police handle it (after all, he was more for the comic book bad guys), but he'd been the first to the scene of the first murder. The image had stayed with him, as had every other. When he came home in the wee hours of the morning and took off the suit, the smell of death lingered on him like a sick perfume. Whoever was doing the slaying was getting in his head, and they didn't even know it. The worst part was that no one had any idea who the hell was doing it.

This stalker was particularly frightening because he claimed to know who the murderer was. And he'd already known who Batman was.

Bruce had been following a growing gang on the side, people who looked like they'd hit the big time if they weren't cut down to size. He'd pinpointed a location for a drug trade off, and if he could get some photos, he'd be able to nail the bastards. He'd gotten there and found a letter... addressed to Bruce Wayne.

Shit.

Either way, it was bad, but if one of the gang members knew who he was, bad became apocalyptic. He wouldn't sacrifice the greater good to save face, but he'd rather not have the press crowding around his house looking for a glimpse of the millionaire-turned-vigilante. It'd give him some problems. He needed to find whoever had written the letter:

_To Mr. Bruce Wayne:_

_I know who your killer is. _

That was it. There was no ultimatum, no demand for money, not even a meeting place to exchange information. And no signature. The whole thing had been typed up on what looked like an actual typewriter, one of those old dinosaurs that were impossible to track. He'd stood there and freaked out silently for a few minutes before having a huge epiphany and heading back home, where he re-watched his broadcasted interview. A convincing performance indeed. He'd blinked twice at the mention of Batman. But what kind of person would notice something like that?

Someone insane, maybe?

But he hadn't heard from them again. There were multiple ways to reach him — through Wayne Enterprises, through Alfred, through one of the supermodels he paraded around... but he hadn't gotten anything: not a phone call, not a letter, not even another typewritten scrap of paper. He thought that by now, three weeks after the incident, he'd begin to calm down, but he hadn't. He had the inexplicable urge to bury the note in the ground (oh yes, he'd kept it) and forget the whole thing before it came back to bite him in the ass. He was behaving far more superstitiously than was healthy; he hadn't even told Alfred about it. The worst part was having absolutely no control over a situation that put him in considerable danger.

He refused to let down his guard. Whenever he needed an incentive to keep on his toes, he remembered Ra's Al Ghul. The last person who'd offered to help him catch killers had turned out to be one.

How was that for ironic?

**

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**

They'd told her that drinking wasn't a good idea, considering that she'd had enough damage done to her head. She wouldn't need as many drinks as other girls to be raped and killed, the doctor had told her personally. She'd wake up in some guy's basement and not remember a fucking thing, and then she'd have to start all over again with the therapy. Not that it had helped, anyway. That was why she needed the booze.

Tequila, specifically. Tequila had always been her drink, not for the taste, but for the strength. Te-kill-ya, they called it. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Well, maybe she'd skip that last part — her head had been splitting since the attempt on her life, and the idea of cracking it on the floor wasn't exactly exciting.

She lifted a shot to her lips and downed it in one, signalling for another. Drinking had become her favourite pastime, especially lately. The nightmare she had anticipated was waking up and devouring her reality. She wasn't ready for this bullshit to come up again.

She did the second shot and blinked hard to clear her head. The guy across the bar winked at her mischievously. He was handsome, but in the slimy kind of way. She smiled politely and flipped him the universal sign for "No thanks." That one finger could speak in ways that words couldn't. "I'm tired," it seemed to say. "I killed all of my past boyfriends and then _I _nearly died a few months ago. Fuck romance—" and, thusly, "Fuck you."

The guy flashed the classic smile of the vinyl-heating pervert, and she ignored him, turning her attention to the TV behind the bar. The Bruce Wayne interview was playing again. People were running around like chickens with their heads cut off over the thing, and he hadn't even said anything of particular interest. He talked about his life, his money, his parents, but everyone had heard all of that before. Nothing made this interview special, or scandalous, or outrageous, but the man knew how to handle the spotlight. He entered a room and the air took on a whole new quality. People clambered to get at him.

He was good looking, she had to admit. She'd have to be a statue not to.

"Like what you see, sweetheart?" asked the bartender, following her gaze.

"You gonna tell me to keep dreaming?" she asked.

He gave her another shot. "Not with your looks," he said. "You could hook him. It's just a matter of getting into the right parties. Mr. Wayne isn't a cheap man."

"I could tell."

"He bought a hotel once," the bartender continued. "Just on a whim. The man is a rock star."

"Have you met him?"

"I have. I had the honour of having some of the finer folk grace my bar once. Very nice man. Tipped well."

"I have no doubt."

The bartender eyed her empty shot glass. "You're not going to have another, are you?" he asked. "Girl your size can only handle so much alcohol before she starts making bad choices."

"I wouldn't worry about that," she replied. "Bad choices are a guarantee in my life. I'd like to see any guy in here try to take me home."

The bartender smiled. It was kind. "I trust you, kid," he said. "It's the world I don't trust. This city, these people... they're bad times. You heard about the murders?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "That hit pretty close to home."

"Tell me about it. The press is having a field day with it — some of the most brutal deaths Gotham's ever seen, and we've seen brutal plenty. You native?"

"Nah. But I've been here long enough to know what you mean."

He grunted. "Anyway," he said, "with the way people are exploiting it... the situation... well, it's like the world gone mad. And then that other girl, the one found on the side of the road. Head cut right open, they said. Like one of them torture victims you see in the movies."

She cleared her throat, a nervous sound, and pulled some money out of her pocket.

"Yeah," she said, "that was something else. Well, I should be going. Thanks for the talk, and the booze."

"Do you need a cab?"

"No, I'm down the road. I'll walk it."

"Take care, sweetheart."

"Be seeing you."

She walked out of the bar feeling the delightful warmth of the first drinks fading in the wake of the sickness of the third and fourth. Her head spun and the city lights turned into a merry-go-round of red and gold. Her shoes — flats, because she hadn't relearned the art of walking in high heels as of yet — made delicate noises against the rough sidewalk, leather on cement. She stumbled into the lobby of a shabby apartment building and pressed the button beside the name _Stapleton. _

A male's voice came on the intercom.

"You can't come in, Hallie."

She groaned and leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the intercom. She didn't want to do this right now; it was one in the morning and she just wanted to sleep.

"Come on, Fuzz. I'm tired."

"This is getting ridiculous. I can't keep putting you up without rent."

"I'm working on it."

"You're not. You're drinking it away, and I'm paying for it. It's been months since the accident. You're running out of excuses."

"One more night and I'll leave you alone. I'll go to a shelter or something."

There was a pause on the other side. "I don't want you to go to a shelter," the man said.

"Then let me in. You can't have it both ways."

The man sighed, and the door buzzed open. "One night," he said, "then I'll help you find somewhere else. I don't have enough money for this."

She yanked the door open before the buzzer stopped. "Thanks, Fuzzy."

"Yeah. Hurry your ass up."

She walked through the lobby and up the staircase on the left, each step creaking under her sore feet. Fuzzy's apartment was at the very top, number 313. He was waiting for her with the door open when she arrived. Fuzzy Stapleton was a large man who dressed as well as he could under his financial circumstances, but more importantly, he was her cousin. She would have gone to live with her parents again, but they weren't living in Gotham, and with the present problems plaguing it, she needed to be in the city. Fuzzy wasn't exactly thrilled with her presence, but she'd been expecting that. No one was ever particularly happy to have Hallie Matthews living with them, especially now that her name was connected with that girl who'd escaped from Arkham and nearly died at the side of the road. She'd almost had to go back, but a psychological assessment at the hospital had allowed her to finally be free of the asylum. Crane was facing an enquiry, though now that he knew she'd survived the surgery, the police were the least of his worries... and the least of hers. She expected that Crane would be after her soon, trying to kill her again so that she wouldn't report him to the cops.

Not that she would anyway. The police were no match for Dr. Crane's new friend.

"Were you drinking all this time?" Fuzzy asked as she walked past him into the shabby apartment. Now that they were face to face, he looked more concerned than actually angry. Hence his name. Fuzzy was a softie.

"No. I did some walking too."

"But mostly drinking. Tequila?"

"Always."

She shuffled her way through the discarded magazines and books and collapsed onto the moth eaten sofa, kicking off her shoes and shifting the pillows to near-comfort. Fuzzy watched her with his usual empty expression, the look of a man who'd eaten his share of mud. His bedroom light was on behind him, throwing his young face into the relief of a much older man.

"You know, I remember you from when we were kids," he said. "You're not that person anymore, though."

"It's been a long time, Fuzz," said Hallie heavily. "How do you know I ever was the person you think I was?"

"I know. I loved you. You were my favourite cousin. Then that thing with Ian... well the whole family kind of wrote you off."

Hallie closed her eyes. "Yeah."

"Doesn't that upset you?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly."

"It upset me."

"That's touching, Fuzz, really it is, but can we talk about it in the morning? I need to sleep."

"I've got work in the morning. I'll be gone before you wake up."

Hallie opened her eyes again and watched him fondly. He worked a crappy job with long hours and little pay, but that was typical of the slums of Gotham, and he was a good sport about it.

"I appreciate this, you know," she said quietly. "I know I don't tell you that often enough, but I do."

"What was I supposed to do? Your name was all over the news. I couldn't throw you onto the street after what happened."

"You could have."

"I guess." He scratched his head. "Maybe it's just not in my nature."

"Maybe not." She smiled. He noticed that, even though something had changed, roughed, about her face since childhood, her smile was still just as genuine as it had ever been. There was some sort of salvation when Hallie Matthews smiled, like maybe there was a God out there who'd let a beautiful girl keep her grin after everything else about her was completely defeated. It was depressing, but it was gorgeous.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "I'll call some people, see if I can find you a place. Or welfare."

She laughed. "Thanks. Sorry about this."

"Don't worry about it."

He retreated into his room, and after a few moments, the light clicked off and the apartment was thrown into darkness. The streetlight flooded Hallie's face, but she was used to it by now. In a few months you could get used to just about anything, as she had — her new place, her new habits, her new hair. She'd never had it as short as it was now, but she liked not having to worry about it in the morning or when she was throwing up, which had become part of her usual routine. She was still too thin, and her body was rejecting the amounts of alcohol she was consuming. She'd never had any in the asylum, after all.

She rolled over on the couch and grabbed the blanket off the back, throwing it over her and hugging it around her shoulders. The night wasn't cold, but it was good to be able to feel some sense of invincibility, like the children who believed that if the comforter was pulled up to their chin, the monster under the bed wouldn't be able to get them. It was a scratchy wool blanket, and it smelled like cigarettes, but it felt the same. It felt like home, and she hadn't had one of those in a long time.

Outside, night was beginning to drift in and out of consciousness, preparing for the coming sunrise. A man in black prowled the rooftops in search of something to keep him busy; the night life hadn't been the same since The League of Shadows had left Gotham. Soon, he'd return home and sit at his desk, poring over the ten words once again, unaware that he'd crossed the sender's rooftop just hours ago, when the city was engulfed in darkness. Hallie didn't hear his footsteps, and if she had, she wouldn't have done anything. She and this night crawler had many things in common, but she had yet to figure out what exactly to do about that. She'd think about it later; she kept telling herself that.

**

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**

Jane Triton had noticed a significant change in the behaviour of her daughter, Persephone. At twenty two, the Triton heiress was a rich, black-haired, blue-eyed beauty with the world had her feet. Her father had seen to that since she was an infant. Persephone would have only the finest clothes, the best formula, the most expensive nanny. Jane had feared that she'd end up being the mother of one of those brats who were currently plaguing the television screen, getting out of cars without their underwear on and going to rehab like it was some sort of summer getaway. She'd been fortunate, however; somehow, Persephone had survived her father's doting with her gentle demeanour intact.

She'd always been a quiet girl, but that in itself had caused problems. She was far too trusting for someone who was living in a big (and undeniably dangerous) city. She had talked to old men on the street when she was a toddler, had allowed herself to be coaxed into cars when she was eleven and twelve. If not for her mother's clinging, she almost certainly would have been destroyed before she turned fifteen. Now a woman, she still had problems with believing that everyone was good, allowing people to treat her like a doormat because she trusted that their judgement was for the best.

Her mother was quite the opposite. No one was good enough for her daughter to talk to or be around. No one was as beautiful, no one as rich, no one was without skeletons in their closet. She wouldn't let her daughter date unless she knew the young man personally, and she absolutely didn't allow friends in the house if they were of unacceptable origin. Persephone had never objected to these rules, just gone about her way. But somehow, that had changed in the past few weeks.

She was defiant now, having somehow developed her own opinion about things that had never concerned her before. She spent money on things that Jane hadn't seen first. She went out at night and didn't come back until late the next morning. And the way she talked... she was absolutely not the same person, Jane was sure of it. She knew her own daughter, and this new person wasn't her. When she wasn't angry and lashing out, she was gone from the house or sobbing and talking to herself in her bedroom. Jane was sure that something had finally happened. After all of the years of caution, she'd been caught off guard and her daughter was suffering for it. She'd be able to confirm her suspicions if Persephone would just talk to her.

And then there was the boyfriend.

Jane didn't approve of him, of course. He wasn't old, but he was too old for Persephone. And his job was... less than favourable. Who in their right mind would think to date the head doctor of a mental asylum, especially one like Arkham? Jonathan Crane had been over for a few dinners, and Jane had immediately decided that she didn't like him. It wasn't a logical dislike — that is, there was nothing about him that she could pinpoint to hate, but the feeling was intense, and she had always trusted her instincts. There was something in that man's eyes that made her go cold all over.

And that girl who'd been on the news, Hallie Matthews — they said he'd tried to kill her before she'd escaped. She'd said herself that the last thing she remembered before waking up on the side of the road was Dr. Crane. How else did someone's head get cut up the way hers was? Jane would bet her soul he'd tried some sort of sick experiment on her, and she'd gotten out before he could try anything else. Poor girl.

What if that was Persephone? What was to stop that man from hurting her daughter? She didn't like it, any of it, and she hated that Persephone had changed so much in the months since she'd started seeing the doctor. Her husband called her crazy, but he knew she wasn't. Somehow, Dr. Crane was brainwashing her baby.

"Persie wants to have Jonathan over again this week," said Mr. Triton one night over dinner. "Is Thursday good for you?"

"I don't want that man in my house," said Jane coolly. "And since when do you call him Jonathan, like he's a part of the family?"

"He's a nice young man."

"He's not."

Mr. Triton chuckled. "Jane, you're just upset that our little girl is finally growing up, and dating a man that you haven't picked out."

Jane sucked her cheeks in angrily. She understood her husband's initial liking for Jonathan Crane. He'd made a healthy living and he was famous in his own way. But something creeping and insubstantial in the back of her mind told her that she couldn't allow herself to be consoled; she was _right, _damn it.

"Give it time," said her husband soothingly. "At least let the man alone until you can find some evidence against him."

Well, that seemed logical enough, Jane thought. And maybe she'd talk to Persephone, too, try to figure out what was going on with her new personality. Things would get better.

"Thursday is fine," she said at last.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ah, 'tis Sunday already; time to update again.I'm not going to give anything away about this chapter. Please just read (hopefully enjoy) and review._

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**Chapter Two**

Hallie's stomach heaved and pushed something up her throat, a gagging sound followed by the sickly smack of bile on water. She held her bangs back with one hand and clutched the toilet seat with the other, the vomit clogging her throat and nostrils with the bitter, sharp taste that never really went away. The lights of the bathroom did the most peculiar little dance, taunting her. She was glad, at least, that Fuzzy had painted the bathroom a cheery yellow rather than the typical white of these apartments. She didn't think she could handle any more white walls and bright lights, not in the same room.

She waited for a few seconds, panting heavily and fighting her gag reflex, until she was sure that no more was coming up. Then she stood weakly, leaning on the sink for support, and flushed the toilet. Green and yellow swirled around clear water and plunged beneath the surface with an ungodly chuckle.

_Good riddance._

She turned to the sink and scrubbed her teeth and tongue until they bled, desperate to keep the sick out of her teeth. As she brushed, she stared at herself in the cracked mirror. Her hair was messy; she'd had such a sudden urge to blow chunks that she hadn't even had the time to get dressed, let alone comb through the mess. A loose tank top concealed her small chest and still-frail figure, her muscles still sagging even though she walked around every day. Her skin, too, had maintained the look of an inmate, pale and pasty, like a corpse. But she could see little changes. She was starting to get cheeks again, and she didn't look like she'd break in half if she tried to lift something. Her eyes had started catching the light, when they weren't shifting to the shadows, looking for a face that she didn't know...

That was the worst part about the whole situation, the not knowing. She was well aware that Crane was looking for her. She'd be able to recognize him. It was the other one that she worried about... there were times when she lay awake at night, watching the streetlights bathe the apartment walls, trembling at the thought that her own nightmare had now taken on a form that she'd never seen before, one for which she was unprepared. She was putting her cousin in danger just by being here, and he had no idea. She needed to hurry up and find the other one.

She dared herself to say it.

"The Small Part," she said, and spat toothpaste and blood into the sink.

Of course, she thought as she pulled off her sweaty clothes, there were only so many ways she could go looking for a complete stranger by herself. She needed someone who knew the city better, who could grant her access to the places she couldn't get as a normal human being. She needed Bruce Wayne and his alternate persona.

Steam rose from the hot shower and she stepped in, watching her skin turn red under the pelting water. She didn't know exactly how she had found out that Bruce Wayne was the shady hero of Gotham. She knew when — it was the interview that had done it. In a way, she had seen something in him that she recognized about herself: the unwillingness to talk about

someone close to her heart that was obviously a point of interest to other people. Bruce's physicality had unconsciously shifted at the mention of the vigilante. He had covered it up fast, fast enough that none but his own kind would recognize what had happened, who he was.

From there, things had gotten more difficult. She'd had to read the tabloids and the credible newspapers to get to where she was. Somehow, she had maintained a sense of intuition throughout all the brain-picking that Crane had done. She knew what was true and what was false, and she had followed the breadcrumbs. Batman was trying his hand at two things at once. He was chasing a killer, of course (there was precious little information about the chase; apparently he wasn't getting much done) and tracking a new gang on the side. Gotham was always spitting out new gangs, so Hallie guessed that he was just biding his time while he looked in vain for the latest murderer. Having shared a body with a criminal, she knew well enough how to find them. They left trails like hurricanes, if you only knew the signs. She dropped hints into their groups like water into the ocean. Ripple effect. She had to admit that she was slightly disappointed by the dark knight's response. He was suspicious, sure, but he'd taken the bait all the same, and ended up right where she wanted him. He found the note she'd typed on Grandma Stapleton's typewriter (Hallie never thought she'd be happy to be living with a packrat). From there, she had watched in the shadows, employing her own silence, watching the man in the suit pick up the note and puzzle over it before leaving.

He was new at mind games, she could tell. He hadn't checked around the place. But he hadn't looked particularly worried, either. It'd be interesting, learning more about him.

Which she intended to do, sure. After all, she was going to have to work with him to stop this whole thing. The issue was getting to him in a way that assured him there was no need to call the cops. If he reported her as a stalker, it'd be back to Arkham. Crane would _really_ kill her then; she sincerely doubted he was the kind of man who'd make the same mistake twice.

Shampooing her hair, her fingers traced the long scar that ran over her scalp, the place where the good doctor had cut into her. She wondered what she looked like behind there, under her skin. She wondered if it was really him who'd taken the blade to her head, or if she'd done enough damage to his arm to prevent him from performing the surgery. It all depended, she supposed, on how long she'd waited in Arkham before she went under the knife. She may have lost months of her life that she didn't even know about, sitting drugged up in solitary, not knowing that someone was healing so that he could hack through her brains.

She turned the water off and reached behind the curtain for a towel, drying her face first. She always did; she wanted to get it over with. She hated those few dark seconds, when she was naked and vulnerable and her eyes were covered.

Fuzzy had left her a note on the table, but it was nothing interesting. He left one for her every morning; he felt bad that she had to wake up to an empty apartment, which was absolutely ridiculous; an empty apartment was better than a nuthouse any day. Still, his concern touched her. She'd be sorry to leave.

_Hallie, _it said.

_I bought eggs yesterday while you were out. Help yourself. There's a position open at the restaurant down a few blocks. I left money for a cab so you can apply._

_Don't buy alcohol._

_Fuzz_

She took the money and shoved it in the pocket of her jeans after she got dressed and then threw the note in the recycling bin. She'd already decided to apply at the restaurant today, but at least now she didn't have to walk. It wouldn't have killed her, but she didn't feel like it today, or any other day.

It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day, behind the smog and cigarette smoke that congested the lungs of the Gotham slums. She could see snatches of blue sky and the sun lit up the crystalline pieces of broken glass on the sidewalk. She'd never really realized how much she loved this city.

* * *

Mornings were always the hardest, probably because, no matter what time he got in, Alfred didn't believe that sleeping past ten was healthy. Every morning he was in at ten on the dot, clearing his throat and throwing back the curtains to let the fiendish sunshine into the room. Bruce groaned and rolled over, shielding his eyes and feeling like a child who didn't want to go to school.

"Five more minutes," he said from under his pillow.

"'Fraid not, sir," said Alfred dutifully. "It's ten o' clock. You have places to go. People to see."

"Like who?"

"Rachel called at nine. I told her you'd call her back."

Bruce frowned; Rachel had called. She didn't do it excessively, but she made contact often enough, though the instances never failed to surprise him. And confuse him, considering that he had no idea where they stood as of yet. When it really came down to it, he wasn't even really sure what he wanted from Rachel Dawes. He loved her, he knew; she was beautiful, intelligent, and he'd known her since he was a child — but actually being _in love _with her was an interesting concept. He would never fool himself into thinking that he would pass up the chance to try the whole "us" thing out, but he was young yet, and Rachel didn't particularly approve of Bruce's night life.

"Did she say anything?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a moment's pause, and Bruce exhaled sharply.

"Are you going to tell me what, Alfred?" he asked with strained politeness.

"Well nothing that will interest you, sir. I believe she's just wondering how you are."

"Ah."

Alfred watched Bruce toying with this idea, secretly amused. When he'd finally realized that he'd crossed the line between "old" and "young", he'd started seeing the world differently. He'd had the chance to watch Bruce Wayne grow up with this new perspective, which was a mildly senile mixture of sarcasm and amusement. When Bruce was his age, he'd realize that these little things didn't matter so much. He was in love with Rachel. He just didn't know it yet.

"Are you going to get out of bed, sir?"

Bruce sighed, abandoning his mental quest. "Sure."

Alfred smiled, triumphant, and left the room to let him dress. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.

* * *

"Good morning."

Persephone heard the voice through something of a haze. No, she thought, that wasn't the word; the thing between her and the world was thicker, more restrictive. A _membrane_, that's was it was, like the sac that foetuses were released in when they left the womb. She was a child all over again, newborn and cold in the brightness. She felt something smooth against her skin and released that she was naked.

Bits of sleep clogged the corners of her eyes and tied her lashes together. Some deep, primitive part of her told her not to move under any circumstances, but that was hardly logical. She could feel that she was in a bed, because it was soft and comfortable, so what could be wrong with that? Maybe she'd gone out last night, had too much to drink... people did that all the time...

But then, she thought, she couldn't remember even getting ready to go out last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that. Really, she couldn't remember any nights at all, or any days, since what felt like ages ago. It seemed that she was waking up from a deeper sleep than just this one; in fact, it seemed she had been sleeping for a very long time.

"What time is it?" she asked softly, afraid to hear the answering voice. The man who had greeted her had sounded casual, kind even, but there was a certain malice to his tone, like he was unused to actually speaking to someone affectionately. That frightened her.

"It is almost nine a.m.," said the man. "We slept in."

"Did we... sleep... together?" she asked. Her eyes were still closed, and she squeezed them tighter as she waited for the reply. She already knew what he was going to say in her heart of hearts, but oh God, what would she tell her mother?

"Persephone?" he said quietly, which was not at all what she was expecting to hear. She opened her eyes, frowned, and rolled over.

The man in bed with her had carved cheekbones and rose lips, and the coldest pair of eyes she'd ever seen. It occurred to her that he was really very pretty, though not in a human sort of way. He scared her with his godlike severity, his hard angles digging into her core like some sort of soul-eating monster.

In about five seconds she worked this out.

"Who did you think I was?" she asked.

He seemed to have to think hard about this question, though she did not take this to mean that he was a stupid man. She herself had never been particularly intelligent, but she'd never make the mistake of thinking that he was an idiot. Not even a blind person could take him for that. There was a presence that emanated from him, something very powerful and very potent and very controlling. She wanted to wilt away from him, but thought it might be rude to tell him so.

"Do you remember who I am?" he asked, and his amateur kindness was gone. He was all business now.

"I've never seen you before."

"Think hard."

She did. She looked back to the last thing she could remember, and yes, there he was. She could remember bringing him home for dinner once and wondering what on Earth she was doing, because when she had really thought about it, she had realized she didn't like him at all, didn't want him in her house. He had changed her, somehow, and not for the better. She had heard that love changed people, but this wasn't the way it was supposed to happen, she didn't think. Nothing about him made her feel special or good, only afraid and dominated. Then there was something else, tugging at her... a faceless voice... a taunting whisper...

"You're Doctor Crane," she said.

"Yes."

"And there's someone else... inside me."

"Yes."

Persephone felt herself beginning to tremble, though the sunlight poured into the room and warmed her. She wanted to puke, remember sitting inside her own body like some sort of prisoner, watching someone else take her over and live her life. She had seen things, horrible things. She had watched people being killed and been unable to do anything.

"What did you do to me?" she asked.

"You had a surgery — it's unimportant. We've been over it every time you've woken up."

"I don't remember."

"I know. It doesn't matter. Soon you'll be gone."

Her face crumpled like a little girl's, one who had been promised a trip to Coney Island and denied the day of.

"What do you mean?"

"Gone, Persephone. No longer in existence. Replaced."

"You're replacing me?"

"Yes."

"_Yes."_

Suddenly, she felt a vicelike grip around her throat. It choked her, but it wasn't him. He remained quite still beside her, watching expressionlessly. She gasped and her fingers curled with pain as something at the back of her mind stirred and lifted its beastly head. She could feel the other one moving forward, through her limbs, sinking in, making her numb. It hurt. She tried to shake her off, but the crawling loss of control was imminent. She sank backward, into darkness, back into the membrane, like a helpless foetus. She was drowning in herself.

Crane watched with his head propped up on one elbow. He watched Persephone's body language change into the smooth, controlled fluidity of a killer. Something behind her irises burst. Something purple. Then all traces of the spineless Persephone Triton were gone, and the Small Part became whole, powerful and beautiful, with a gasp of new air.

He smiled.

"Good morning."


	3. Chapter 3

_At last, we kick it into third gear. I mean to say, things are really starting to happen now. Are we excited? Well, I am. Hopefully you'll share my enthusiasm after reading this one. _

_Oh, and wishing everyone who celebrates it a very happy Easter._

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"Hallie?" Fuzzy's keys jangled as he came through the door. He closed it behind him and tossed his keys in a ceramic bowl on the table he kept in the tiny nook that he called the front hallway. It was the only thing even remotely decorative about the place; he still hadn't painted anything but the bathroom (the amount of paint cost the least) or hung up any pictures. It was too much work, and it wasn't as if he had anything worthwhile to hang anyway.

"I'm in here," Hallie called back.

"Did you apply today?"

"Yeah."

He turned the short corner into the living room, where she lay on the couch with a cloth on her forehead, watching the TV. In this light, it hit him even harder how pale she was. When she'd first showed up at his door, he'd been uncomfortable to say the least; he hadn't seen her since they were children and she was now part of a large enquiry at the nuthouse. Not exactly the person he was most keen to see. But she'd seemed perfectly sane — and still did, discounting the drinking — and he couldn't turn her out when it was so obvious that she needed help. He was soon used to her presence and disturbed more by how defeated she was than where she'd been before she was here. He wouldn't have said it to her, but he wanted her to stay (if he said it, she'd take it for an invitation). It got lonely in the tiny apartment, and after these few months, he couldn't imagine waking up and not hearing her talking in her sleep in the next room over.

She did that a lot, the talking. Most times he couldn't understand what she was saying, but some nights it was crystal clear, and he'd stay awake listening to her. She talked about Crane an awful lot, and in a way that made him shiver and pull the blankets around him. She hated him, and feared him, perhaps more than she hated and feared herself. She talked about the Small Part — whatever that was — and about Ashley Carr. He'd been on the grapevine when news started spreading within the family that the crazy was finally turning her life around, starting with a good man, but Fuzzy had never met Ash personally. And never would now.

"Not feeling well?" he asked, sitting on the other end of the sofa, next to her feet.

"Splitting headache. I took about twenty ibuprofen but they didn't work."

"You're going to damage your liver. Any idea what caused it?"

"Stress."

"From?"

She pointed to the TV. The news were on, going through the basics of two more brutal murders. Fuzzy's stomach dropped as he realized who it was.

"Isn't that — "

"Yeah. Carl Bremen and Ashley Fallak."

"And they're the ones who — ?"

"Found me, yeah." Hallie closed her eyes.

Fuzzy swallowed with a click. "Are you worried?" he asked.

"Not particularly," said Hallie. "There's no way they can track me to here using Carl and Ashley; I never told them exactly where I'd go. It's just horrible... they were good people."

"Do you think it means anything?"

Hallie shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. You missed earlier — Ashley's parents are dead too, and their place was completely ransacked. All their money stolen, jewellery, anything expensive. Carl and Ashley were found at her parent's cottage, which was supposed to be a pretty nice place, but nothing was touched. It could be totally random. The Fallaks were rich, and being rich is dangerous right now."

Fuzzy watched her closely for a few seconds, and she watched the TV. "But you don't think it's random," he said quietly.

"No."

"Why not?"

Hallie slid the cloth from her forehead over her eyes. "Because a sledgehammer was used on Mr. and Mrs. Fallak and on Carl, but not on Ashley — she was stabbed."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because Ashley Carr was stabbed to death."

"Your fiancée."

Hallie laughed dryly; it sounded painful. "Yeah. I think they're trying to send me a message. If they are, I heard it, loud and clear."

"Why would they want to send you a message?" he asked, confused. "I mean you don't have any money, and you've never done anything wrong..." He trailed off, watching her uncomfortably, realizing that wasn't exactly true.

Hallie didn't snap at him; she just laughed again. "There are plenty of people who want me dead," she said. "I went to the asylum for killing three men, and now the world knows I'm out. My lawyer got me for insanity, so society has pretty much shook its head sympathetically and forgiven me, but I imagine that's not good enough for the families. Some of them are probably looking for revenge. And then there's Crane."

"_Doctor_ Crane?"

"Yeah."

"He doesn't have any beef with you."

"Doesn't he? It's because of me that he's having an enquiry right now. He already tried to kill me once, Fuzz; I know you don't believe that, but he did. Now he's realized he was unsuccessful, I'm sure he's going to want to finish the job."

"But Dr. Crane wouldn't do stuff like this. This is illegal; it's attention-seeking. He'd get caught."

"He's not doing it personally. He's got a lapdog."

"Hallie, do you know what you're saying?"

Hallie nodded.

"That's a pretty serious accusation."

Nod.

"You could get in trouble for saying something like that."

"Have you got something you want to tell me, Fuzz?"

"I just think you should watch yourself, okay?" His eyes flicked nervously to the television screen. "There's a lot of shit flying around right now and it seems like you're pretty close to the middle of it. And you're living with me. I don't really want to die."

"I'll protect you, Fuzz," Hallie laughed, nudging him with a socked foot.

"Look at you," he said, and she lifted the cloth from her eyes. "You can't even protect yourself."

**

* * *

**

The hallway had grown dark outside of her husband's study, so night must have fallen. Jane couldn't remember watching the sun set outside the windows, but she couldn't remember much of the day at all. She could have been standing here for hours. Probably had.

Her husband was on the phone with a business associate who seemed to be giving him a hard time. Mr. Triton was placating him, though; he was good at that. For years he had kept his wife from losing her mind. She had been beautiful once, he remembered, a willowy, graceful creature with bright eyes, but she'd changed after he married her. She came from a middle class family, and new money did strange things to people. It hadn't turned her into a horrible, selfish bitch, but she was constantly harbouring the fear that it would and she'd become dry and insignificant, a Stepford wife. He tried in vain to convince her that she had retained her soul, that she was still the same person he had loved when they were young, but now even he had begun to see that it wasn't true. She still wasn't an awful woman, but the life had gone out of her beautiful eyes. There was no need to be adventurous when everyone brought you everything you could ever want. In a way, he had destroyed her.

Jane knew this, and had contented herself with the fact that Persephone remained unspoiled. Now that was changing too. Her daughter's eyes were getting darker. She had looked at her a few days ago, standing in the kitchen with a knife in her hands, had seen a glimpse of something in her daughter's gaze that wasn't supposed to be there.

Now she stood in the shadows, waiting for her husband to be finished with the latest of his seemingly endless business calls. Her hands were sweating more profusely than they ever had before. Finally, she heard the click that told her the phone had been hung up. She opened the door without knocking and stood in the dim light of the fireplace. Mr. Triton reached out and flipped on the light that sat on the corner of his desk, lighting up the tears that stained lines down his wife's face.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

She walked forward and slammed her hand down on his desk. She pulled it away, leaving a pile of gold and silver.

"What's this?" he asked. He shifted through it and his body temperature dropped a few degrees.

"The Fallak family crest," said Jane, her voice breaking. "It's on every single one of them. I found them in Persephone's room."

Mr. Triton picked up individual pieces; she was right. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, all with the intricate F in the middle of a coat of armour.

"Do you know where the Fallaks are right now?" he heard his wife ask. Her voice was shaking. "They're dead. Bludgeoned with a sledgehammer in their own home. Their daughter was found in the summer cottage with her boyfriend. He was killed too. He wasn't even related, wasn't even rich, and his head got smashed in just the same."

"Jesus, Jane."

"Jesus has nothing to do with it."

Mr. Triton stood up and put his hand on his wife's shoulder.

"Jane, honey — let's consider this —"

"No!" she screamed, shoving his hand off and backing away. "No! You always want to consider, always want to be reasonable, ever since she started dating that man! I am sick of pretending that nothing is wrong with her! _We are losing our daughter and you're not even locking the doors to keep her in!"_

"Persephone wouldn't hurt anybody —"

"She's not Persephone anymore! She's something else!"

"Persephone didn't kill the Fallaks. We'd know if she did."

"No, we wouldn't," said Jane stiffly. "She's been spending every night with Crane for the past two weeks. You've been working."

Mr. Triton looked back at the pile of jewellery on his desk. It gleamed menacingly in the flickering twilight.

"We'll talk to her about this," he said. "Is she home? Call her. Right now."

"I did," said Jane darkly. "The number Crane gave us is disconnected."

"Then — where does he live? Where would they go?"

"Hell if I know," she said. "I haven't seen him or Persephone for three days."

Mr. Triton nodded, and the reality of the situation came down on him like a ton of bricks. He took a few deep breaths and stared into the fire.

Where was his daughter?

"Call the police," he said. "Call them now — right now."

**

* * *

**

Alfred turned off the news with a sigh. Another story about the slaying of the Fallaks, another question of who was behind the murders.

"Don't torture yourself, sir," he said quietly.

Bruce had developed a masochistic compulsion over the latest murders, probably because they had signalled an escalation in brutality. Ashley Fallak and her boyfriend had been staying at the family's summer cottage, where nothing of particular value was touched. Every other murder had been a couple in their own home. After they were killed, they were robbed. Ashley and Carl were the children of the first vein; there was no reason for them to die. They just did.

They were also the youngest people to be killed so far.

"Who does this, Alfred?" Bruce asked, staring at the blank television screen. "What kind of a person does these things?"

"The kind of person who wants to send a big, brash message," Alfred guessed thoughtfully. "A bad person, certainly."

"Certainly."

In his hands, Bruce held the typewritten letter. He'd been carrying it around with him for a while now, as a sort of talisman. He was quickly becoming desperate for contact from this guy, because he needed help. The police were running in circles with their hands in their air, and while Batman was a good way to follow things, he didn't have many resources. And what was Bruce supposed to do as himself? Ask the police for classified information because he was rich and wanted to know? He was caught between people, two different facets of himself, and neither one of them was going to be able to save the city unless one of them got help. If there was someone out there who had the smarts to know that Batman and Bruce Wayne were one in the same, he needed them on board.

"Alfred," he said.

"Yes sir?"

"I need to tell you something."

He held up the note and Alfred took it gingerly. He took out his glasses and read it carefully once, twice, three times.

"Where did you find this?" he asked when he was finished.

"In the place where I was supposed to be intercepting a gang meeting."

"But it's addressed to Bruce Wayne."

"Yes."

Alfred nodded. "That's very interesting, sir."

Bruce turned on the couch to look at his butler incredulously. "That's interesting?" he repeated. "That's _interesting? _Is that really all you have to say?"

"What other word is there for it?"

Bruce sighed in exasperation.

"When did you find it?"

"A few weeks ago."

"And you haven't heard from them since?"

"No."

"And they haven't gone to the press."

"No."

"Then we'll have to assume that nothing will come of it."

He handed the note back to Bruce, who took it and ran his thumbs over the raised crust of ink. There was something strange about typewritten words, how they were both clean and blurred at the same time. They were... eerie.

_What other word is there for it?_


	4. Chapter 4

_Warning for really squeamish readers: this next bit gets a bit graphic. It's not really bad, trust me, but if you really can't handle even the slightest bit of discomfort, I suggest you just skim the first section of this chapter._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

The basement had a leak.

It came from the tiny window in the wall to her left, up high, and looking out to nothing but dirt. That was how she knew she was in the basement — all of the windows, including the leaky one, had underground views.

The windows were set on cement walls; no decorators had been anywhere near this place. The floor was cement too, but she couldn't feel it; her wrists were tied to a metal bar that hung from the ceiling. She must have looked like a female version of Jesus, her naked body in the shape of a cross. Her head was throbbing dully but she was thoroughly convinced that it was the least of her problems.

Daisy had been working at the hospital in Gotham for a couple of months. She was a pretty girl in an idyllic sort of way: long legs, slim waist, full, high breasts. Paired with her blonde hair and blue eyes, she was pretty much a life size Barbie. She had started noticing the way men looked at her when she was thirteen and had to start wearing a training bra. Their hungry gazes had made her start dressing the way she did, in baggy jeans and sweatshirts with her hair tied up off her face. Eventually she'd come into herself a little, but she still wore skirts with modest lengths and never put on a v-neck shirt. She learned in the hospital that her caution was probably well chosen — too many girls got raped these days for her to be taking chances.

She had always been intuitive; she usually knew what people were thinking and what actions they would take. But for some reason, she'd never seen this coming. She wasn't even sure who'd done it. She just remembered some strange things starting to happen. She'd lost her keys at work one day, which never happened, and after she'd looked for them for hours, she'd gone back to her coat in all hopelessness and had found them in her pocket where she'd left them. A few times in the past few weeks, she'd gotten back to her apartment to find papers on her desk shuffled, like someone was looking for something, and she was running out of food faster than she knew she was eating it. She had confided these happenings to her friend at the hospital, who'd told her to get her locks changed. Daisy had booked the locksmith to come over tonight. Well, when he came, he wasn't going to find anyone. When she'd gotten off from work and gone to her apartment earlier today, she'd been hit in the head with something hard (probably the clay vase her mother had bought her; she knew she shouldn't have kept it so close to the door) and had fallen to the floor with an almighty thud. Then her vision had blurred sickeningly, and she was out.

Then she woke up here, in the basement of a building with no windows (or at least not any that were of use) and a rolling table full of ominous looking instruments level with her swinging feet. Also on the table was her nurse's uniform, her keys, her driver's license, and her cat's collar. What the last bit meant, she wasn't sure, but she knew it wasn't good.

The woman hadn't come in until later.

She was tall and athletic-looking, and she'd tied her long black hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck before proceeding to light a cigarette and stare at Daisy. She wore a full body apron. She'd only arrived a few minutes ago, coming in from the half of the room that Daisy couldn't see, and she'd laughed at Daisy's muffled cries for help (there was a grotesque wad of fabric in her mouth that prevented any real communication). The woman stood in the corner, smoking and watching, until her cell phone rang. She picked it up.

"I've got her," she said. "I'll finish in an hour."

Then she hung up. She walked over to the table with the instruments and picked up Daisy's ID, chuckling briefly.

"Daisy Ryerson," she said. Her voice sounded like it had once been high pitched and girly but had suddenly turned flat and cynical. The result was something out of a nightmare. "How white bread are you?"

She picked through the instruments and selected a pair of tongs, using them to remove the fabric from Daisy's mouth. She tossed it aside, somewhere beyond Daisy's limited perspective. Free of her impediment, Daisy immediately began to scream. The woman seemed unperturbed, picked up a metal pipe from the pile, and struck Daisy across the face with it. She began to spin like a marionette. Her cheek had been ripped open by the force of the metal; she tasted the blood pouring steadily into her mouth and started to cry.

"Not that anyone will hear you," said the woman conversationally, "but you'll give me a headache, and I have a lot of work to get done before we're finished here."

"What do you want?" Daisy asked. It hurt to talk; the wound on her face stretched and set pain flashing up through her head.

"Not much. I've got a nice car. A big house. In general, I'm pretty easy to please." She shrugged. "What I really want is to play a game with you. It's called truth, and it's completely idiot-proof, I promise. Here's how it works: I ask you a question, and you tell me the truth. If you don't, I hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Will you let me go if I answer your questions?"

The woman struck her across the other cheek, her face contorting with an unchecked fury.

"Daisy," she said calmly, when Daisy had finished spinning, "I asked you a question and you didn't answer. That's against the rules."

"Okay," Daisy cried. "I understand."

"Good then. We can start. Do yourself a favour and make this as painless as possible. Okay?"

"Yes."

"Peachy. What's your middle name?"

"Anne."

"And where do you work, Daisy Anne Ryerson?"

_Oh shit._

Daisy had heard about people like this, abducting doctors for revenge because they hadn't been properly treated. If she said she worked at a hospital, she'd be a goner for sure.

The woman picked up a knife off the table. "I'm waiting, Daisy," she said.

"I work at a pregnancy clinic downtown," said Daisy breathlessly. "I talk to teenagers about — no!"

The woman didn't listen. She reached down and took hold of Daisy's foot with an iron-tight grip, too strong to be real for a person her size. She dug the blade into the big toe and cut straight through the bone. Daisy didn't hear it fall to the floor through her screaming.

"It wouldn't have been fair to take the whole foot," said the woman, wiping her hands off on her apron. "You were pretty close to the truth. How about I give you one more chance, eh? Where do you work, Daisy?"

"I work at the hospital!" Daisy screamed. "The hospital on Fifth Street!"

"Good. Which ward?"

"Psych."

"Excellent. You're better at this than I gave you credit for." She put the knife down and picked up a handheld blowtorch, the kind you got at camping supply stores. "Now we get into the more important questions. You've got to be careful about these ones, because I won't be so nice about them as I have been so far. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Good." She flicked the blowtorch briefly, watching the blue flames rent the air. "You are aware of one Doctor Jonathan Crane, are you not?"

"Yes," Daisy whispered.

"When did you meet him?"

"He came to evaluate a patient once," said Daisy. "I briefed him."

"What was the patient's name?"

Fuck fuck fuck. Daisy didn't remember. Jacob Something, wasn't it? Jacob... Jacob Stewart? Jacob Sawyer?

"Tick-tock, Daisy Ryerson."

"I can't remember," said Daisy in a quiet, terrified voice. The woman turned on the blowtorch and held it dangerously close to Daisy's undamaged foot; she could feel the warmth.

"I suggest you start remembering," she said.

"Okay! Okay." She wracked her brains, watching the flame get closer. "Don't, don't do that! I can't think when you're doing that!"

"Hurry up."

"He — his name was —" Oh, Christ, she had no fucking idea. It may not even have been Jacob.

The flame overtook her foot, and the pain was more than anything she'd ever experienced, more than any one person could surely survive. It ripped through her. She was screaming so loud that she could hear her eardrums moaning in protest.

The flame stopped.

"His name was Andrew Clarke," said the woman coolly. "I thought you would have remembered that, Daisy. I'm very disappointed."

Daisy rested her head back on the bar her hands were tied to and cried.

"Next question," said the woman quietly. "This is very important now, you understand?"

"Yes..."

She was going to die. She saw it as clearly as she saw the cracks in the ceiling.

"You worked with Hallie Matthews, didn't you? The woman from Dr. Crane's asylum."

"Yes. I evaluated her to see if she needed to go back."

"Perfect. Last question." She put the blowtorch away and picked up an axe, swinging it lithely in her tiny hands.

"Who did Hallie Matthews call when she was discharged?"

Daisy Ryerson realized at exactly that moment what was happening. This woman was some sort of fanatic, a Crane-worshipper. She was going to kill Hallie Matthews.

"I don't know."

The woman seethed. "I don't know who you think you're protecting, Daisy," she said quietly. "Not yourself, surely."

"You're going to kill that girl, aren't you?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because her number is up. You're not helping her by not answering. You're just making me more angry. So the worse for her. So the worse for you."

She smiled pleasantly and swung the axe.

* * *

Jim Gordon waited in the darkness for the familiar silhouette to appear suddenly on the rooftop. He still wasn't accustomed to these strange night time meetings with the masked man, but he supposed that beggars couldn't be choosers, and he'd been begging for a break for a long time. This man -- whoever he was -- seemed to know what he was doing. Gordon didn't hold it against him that the latest murder was getting away with… well, murder. The masked man was talented, sure, but underneath the costume and the otherworldly gadgets, he was still just a man, and whoever was killing people this time seemed to be the farthest thing from human.

The police had gotten a nasty shock this morning when they found a mangled cadaver dumped just one block down. It was clearly a message, and a taunting one at that. Come and get me coppers. Mwahahaha. Disgusting. They'd had to identify the victim by her dental records, her body was so ravaged; no one would have been able to recognize the poor girl's face. She'd been burned top to bottom. All this, the examiner had told him, before dying of blood loss from the dismemberment and disembowelment. Daisy Ryerson, her name was. She worked at the hospital. She was rich too. If not for that, they would have thought they had another killer in Gotham (and what a joy that would have been). Her house had been completely ransacked, and anything that couldn't be transported was destroyed. Her parents had been notified immediately, and were strongly advised to leave the area, especially after the Fallak case. The killer was going after family members now.

And what were the police doing? Well, what could they do? The guy was a ghost; there wasn't a hair left behind, not a fingerprint. There was nothing but a bloody mess at every scene, or, in the case of this latest, no scene at all, just a ravaged body. The Gotham police were no strangers to kills done in cold blood. They also knew the damage done by jealous rage. But how could one person have such a hateful disposition toward such a wide variety of people? There were the rich and powerful, sure, but then there were the heiresses and the innocent blue collar men who were being killed behind bars. There was no demographic to suggest some sort of past event that would twist into a need for vengeance, no sexual preference that said the killer was getting off on watching their objects of lust in pain. Which therefore left only one alternative: this person just liked killing. Anyone, any time. Kill, kill, kill. That was more frightening by far than some religious nutcase or a serial killer with a need for what they thought was kinky sex. He'd seen those, too. They all went nuts in the end and made a mistake.

He hoped this guy broke down soon. He'd stopped going for drinks after work, and had never before been grateful that he was not a prominent member of upper class society. Money was a dangerous and powerful thing.

And then this Doctor Crane business… that greasy weasel knew his way around the law better than any of the long time nutcases he had in his cells. He had wormed his way out of charges for the incident with the toxic gas. Used a lot of big psychotic words and underwent a psychological evaluation, conducted by someone he probably knew and paid handsomely. Now he was running Arkham and facing an enquiry for the business with that Hallie Matthews girl. Gordon would bet his life -- no, maybe not his life, but his house definitely -- that Crane had something to do with this. He had something to do with _everything._

And, of course, there had to be more. Persephone Triton, the city's beloved little rich girl, had been reported missing. Perhaps the first hostage to be taken by the killer… perhaps dead already. It wasn't easy for someone like her to slip under the radar, but somehow she'd managed it. She wasn't even twenty five yet. Gordon worried about the outcome of this one; Gotham couldn't handle Persephone Triton's death. She was too young, too beautiful. The city would mourn, and then it would collapse. It would be soul destroying chaos all over again.

In the darkness, Gordon heard footsteps and sighed, putting on his business face. It made his stomach churn to have to take care of matters such as these. What a plague mankind was turning out to be.


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm very sorry for missing the update last week, but I was very sick and very stressed and even the thought of getting on the computer was making me dizzy. FanFiction is simply not worth throwing up for. _

_This chapter is the shortest so far, but it's a look inside the Small Part's head, so I think that makes up for the fact. I'll try to do better next week. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

The heart's death is small. Humans, whose bodies and minds are proportionate to their feelings, believe that their loss is catastrophic and that they will never move on. They are wrong. The death of a heart, the death of a soul, is only a preparation for the bigger end, because in the true end, love saves no man. Love is not as humans perceive… it is not blind. If the world truly does fall to its knees before love, it is only because love kicked it in the back. It is a cannibal.

The flickering electric light coming from the television screen sent ripples of shock through the shadows that were cast by wrinkles in the blankets. The news was becoming repetitive, but it didn't stop them from watching; they needed to taste the fruits of their labour, watch the city suck itself dry. The police officers were chasing their tails; even the mighty Batman hadn't caught them yet. Crane had easily fooled himself into taking most of the credit for this. The Small Part was under his thumb, his own beautiful Doberman on a silver leash.

Beside him in the bed, The Small Part's long, lithe legs were folded comfortably, her fingers drumming on the mattress. Her hair, once sleeked by a straightening iron, had been allowed to curl into an unruly mane that flew around her face and highlighted the deep purple of her eyes. She had truly Become now, adapting to her new environment flawlessly, and Persephone Triton was no more.

Jim Gordon was making a statement about the murders that had occurred within his jurisdiction. He was pissed, The Small Part could see, though he was trying to conceal it. This was more than a mild annoyance at being humiliated; he was too good a man to let his pride get him that way. No, he was infuriated because someone out there was getting away with murder. Someone right here, she thought, and smiled. Here she said, comfortably exhausted, a breeze from the open window coming in to caress her bare skin, and there were no police officers banging the door down to arrest her. Not that she'd let them. She'd kill them all and eat their hearts out of their chests for trying to take her.

Then she'd let Crane take the fall.

It was beginning to become more evident, the way he looked at her, and it was amusing. She saw the arrogance in his walk. He was still under the impression that he was the man in charge, that he ordered the kills and she did as he said. For now, that was what she wanted him to think. She needed to secure his confidence in her. Besides, she had no reason to kill him as of yet; he was falling for her hard. Once he was all the way down, crippled by the harsh landing, she would step on his fingers and walk on. She could let him get into a position where he'd do anything for her, and once he did what she needed him to do, she'd dispose of him and devour the city. It was hers for the taking.

There was just the matter of Hallie, which didn't really matter. If she told the police the truth, they'd lock her back in Arkham and Crane would finish the job. If she testified that Crane was doing illegal experiments on her while in the hospital, Crane would go to prison. Nothing about the entire situation affected The Small Part, except maybe the fact that she wasn't sure if she could really kill Hallie.

That was eating away at her, the realization that she may very well have the opportunity to gut the girl who'd tried to get rid of her and chicken out. She didn't lust for Hallie's blood. In a strange way, she couldn't wish her dead. She'd tried to fantasize about the best way to do it, to make it gruesome and slow, but her nerves shot off at the thought of her previous body in pain. She remembered her midnight conversations with Hallie, the way the girl had fought her quest for control, so unlike the young Persephone. Hallie, who knew who she was even if she wasn't aware of the knowledge.

"The police have connected the bar murders to the others," said Crane, turning down the television.

The Small Part drew herself away from her broodings and licked her lips slowly, watching Jim Gordon's face.

"So?" she said quietly.

"They're smarter than I anticipated. I didn't think profilers would make any connections."

"What're you saying?"

"You should stop at the bars."

"Why?"

"Because they'll start setting traps. Hunting you out with private investigators and con men."

The Small Part laughed, a terrifying sound. "You think I don't know when someone is playing the possum?" she asked.

"It's dangerous. If they arrested you -- "

"Don't concern yourself," she said, cutting him off.

"I don't want you to get arrested," he said softly. "That's all."

She could feel him looking at her, his eyes tracing her face. She wanted to turn and rake her nails across his face, tear strips of his flesh away until she saw the bone. She wanted to sink her teeth into him. He didn't want her to get arrested.

"I can't do this without you," he said. "You know that."

She smiled, chuckled, turned to face him. "More than you do, perhaps," she murmured.

He took her face in his skeletal hands, brought their mouths together. She devoured him, writhing in a clutch of teeth and tongue; a predatory kiss. Her fingers found their way to the vulnerable skin of his back, where ribs jutted, angular, smooth to the touch.

_Meat, _she thought, and pulled him down.

* * *

She watched from her car. She watched from the backs of the bar down the street. She watched from the alley outside the diner. She watched and she learned.

She learned that Hallie was indeed staying with her cousin the Stapleton boy, just as Daisy Ryerson had told her. Hallie had a habit of drinking late on Saturday nights; she was a regular and the bartender knew her. She had gotten a job at a diner a few blocks from her apartment, but she wasn't good at it. Waitressing would never be an appropriate job for Hallie; she wasn't enough of a people-person.

She came home on weeknights and had dinner with Stapleton. They talked. They watched the news. Then he went to bed and she curled up on the couch and watched the walls. She didn't smoke, but she wanted to. Stapleton left early in the morning, writing a note before heading out the door. Hallie woke up, threw up, crumpled the note up, and went to work. It was a simple enough existence. Simple and boring.

From her car across the street from the apartment window, The Small Part detested how unimportant Hallie's life had become. When they had been together, Hallie Matthews was a person who meant more than other people, someone who had taken men's lives into her hands and destroyed them easily. She had gained the attention of Doctor Crane. She was interesting. Now she was just another girl in Gotham's trashy part of town, trying to make a living so she could stop sucking the life out of a family member.

During the day, The Small Part tried in vain to think up the best ways to do it. She even sank so low as to begin convincing herself that she'd be putting Hallie out of her misery. Why should it matter? She was just another human with a worthless life, sliding through the meaningless hum of the day to day with no higher calling. It could be quick, she thought, painless. Another name to the list, another notch to the bedpost. It shouldn't have been this hard.

It couldn't matter, she decided at last. She couldn't let this impediment stop her. If she didn't kill Hallie, Crane would get suspicious. He wouldn't be able to get rid of her even if he thought she was going soft, but she didn't want him gone yet.

Everything was going to work out. She just kept telling herself that.

She had never lied to herself before.


End file.
